


Drowning in Waterlogged Pages

by Aloysius



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Books, Combeferre is good for Grantaire, Grantaire likes books a little too much, M/M, Modern AU, Recovery from alcoholism, grantaire/combeferre week, this is very fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:19:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloysius/pseuds/Aloysius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man blinked. "I find your face quite lovely." He then went a little red, handed over his money in exchange for the neatly wrapped parcel of books, then left.</p><p>Grantaire turned to Jehan incredulously. "What the fuck was <i>that</i>?"</p><p>"That was Combeferre. Lovely, isn't he?" Jehan supplied with a smile.</p><p>"Well, that's one word i'd use."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning in Waterlogged Pages

**Author's Note:**

> Thankyou to the lovely [Asame](http://gamadin.tumblr.com) for betaing and also for the spectacular commentary she provided while doing so, including the gem "jehan your dokis are showing."

In Grantaire's apartment, one simply could not move for books. His apartment was in the centre of town, crammed in the tiny second floor above a charming little cafe that sold homemade pastries and more varieties of tea than he could count. Grantaire's kitchen was almost too small to fit anything in, but it did mean he didn't have to move when he cooked; he could merely pivot and whatever he needed would be in front of him. He mostly didn't bother eating in his apartment - he had an agreement with the owner of the cafe wherein if he played violin for the customers every now and then he could help himself to tea and cakes whenever he pleased. (He tried not to abuse this, but the little lemon tarts were just divine.)

His living room was just big enough to squeeze in a two-sweater sofa, chest of drawers, and an easel. The living room had the best light and thus contained all of his materials; the canvases slotted behind the sofa and paints stacked by the door and on shelves - as many as he could fit on the wall. The corner with the chest of drawers was a strictly paint free corner. He kept most of his clothes here (so he could easily grab a sweater on his way out if need be) and had his laptop on top to serve as both stereo and TV. Above this were four shelves with a very neat arrangement of books. The books and paints did not go near each other under any circumstances. His books stayed in pristine condition: no exceptions.

The flat had two bedrooms, and he used the biggest as his own. His bed was pushed into one corner and his desk into another. The rest was books. Bookshelves ran along the wall opposite the bed and desk, all mismatched and overflowing with too many books. The walls above his bed and desk had as many shelves as he could possibly fit, books crammed into every available space; stacked at the foot of his bed, in the windowsill, underneath the desk. His violin was kept neatly between the end of his bed and desk, along with his ballet shoes and fencing gear. Anything else he needed was under the bed.

The second bedroom was more of a nest. He'd filled one corner with as many cushions and blankets as he could get his hands on (none of them matching and all of them hideous) and used this room primarily for reading. He'd managed to squeeze in one tall, thin bookcase but mostly they were on mounted shelves or simply stacked neatly on the floor. He had a sketchbook at the side of his blanket nest, ready to absently sketch the images he got when reading, of tranquil scenery and dramatic battles, profound images and empowering protagonists. He kept the thick curtains closed most of the time, preferring to read by the light of fairy lights and battery powered candles. He'd prefer real ones, but it was a horrendous fire hazard. He did, occasionally, light incense sticks if the mood took him. His reading room was one of his favourite places in the world.

His other favourite places were actual bookshops. They were generally pretty quiet, he found, and he found it calming to be in such a familiar environment. He supposed that was the reason; generally it was hard to describe what it was he found so appealing but he just generally enjoyed being there. Whilst he enjoyed the airiness and new book smells of Waterstones, generally he preferred the smaller, secondhand bookshops he'd found on his travels. These were his absolute favourite. He liked the fact it felt like walking into someone's bookself, all crammed together and falling over everything. They'd smelled like comfort and since they were more often than not quite cramped they felt safe. His absolute _absolute_ favourite store was like this. The building itself was old, with low ceilings and beams and thin winding staircases up three floors and little nooks and crannies in the most unusual places. It was so full in some places there was only just room to squeeze between the shelves. He loved it.

He ducked in one day after ballet, having realised that morning he had absolutely nothing to read. He waved at Jehan - the petite boy behind the till who wore ridiculous sweaters - and disappeared into the shelves, running one hand absently down the spines as he fished his thick rimmed glasses out of his bag to read the titles. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, he just wanted something he hadn't read before. He mostly drifted, occasionally pulling out books where the titles or covers caught his eye, skimming over the backs and clutching them to his chest. There was only one other person in the store besides him, a tall man in thin metal framed glasses and a pale grey sweater with a pale blue shirt poking out from beneath it. They mostly paid no mind to each other, glancing up occasionally if they passed. Grantaire lost sight of him when he was on the second floor, digging his way eagerly through a shelf labelled 'dystopian' in scrawling handwriting. He pushed his glasses up his nose with his index finger and removed a book to find a pair of stormy eyes blinking back at him from the other side of the shelf. For a moment Grantaire wanted his sketchbook, wanted to immortalise the look of clouds dripped one by one into calm water, the murky depths beneath them, the drops of sunlight swimming on the surface.

Instead he put his head down and moved down the shelf, oblivious of the person wishing they had their camera to capture eyes the colour of blue lithospermum at dusk that shone with an insatiable curiosity, starkly contrasted against thick black frames and soft ebony curls.

When Grantaire reached the end of shelf (having gained a grand total of four books from that shelf alone) he paused and turned to survey the man properly. He was standing with good posture, his face half obscured by his sandy brown hair as he scanned the back of a book. He had a satchel hanging from his shoulder, the end of a deep red scarf poking out. He glanced sideways at Grantaire, who turned and swept down the stairs. The Sci-Fi section - an old favourite - was close to where Jehan sat in the counter, legs crossed as he tapped his fingers in time to the music in his headphones. Grantaire started at the bottom of the shelf, working his way upwards, until he spotted a title above him that he'd been recommended. Even standing on his toes it was too high for him to reach. Someone leaned over him from behind, reaching up to pull the book out and pressing him against the shelf. He was a little concerned for a second, until they pulled away swiftly and stepped backwards. He turned, and unsurprisingly it was the man from upstairs, who handed him the book with a small smile.

"This is the one, right?"

Grantaire took it carefully. "Um. Yes. Thankyou."

He smiled a little wider and spun neatly on his heel into the crime section, disappearing amongst the shelves. He looked to Jehan - who shrugged - then followed him out of curiosity. Grantaire didn't read crime often, unless the mood took him, so mostly dithered at the end of the shelf squinting at titles through his glasses.

"Are you an artist?"

He looked up sharply. The man was looking over the top of his glasses at Grantaire's paint stained shirt.  
"Art student." Grantaire clarified.

He nodded and turned back to the shelf, scanning it for a second before sliding out a book and presenting it to Grantaire. "A recommendation." The cover proclaimed it 'Portrait of a Killer' by Patricia Cornwell. "It discusses the theory that Jack the Ripper was the artist Walter Sickert. Are you familiar with his work?"

Grantaire nodded. "Studied him in my first year."

"Perhaps you might find it interesting then." He said, offering it with a smile. Grantaire added it to the stack of books he was balancing on one arm, then leaned over him to pull something from the shelf. He had a comforting smell, cinnamon and a hint of vanilla.

"A recommendation." He said with a grin, presenting the book. "Historical crime set in the 1500s and centred around the dissolution of the monasteries." C.J. Sansom was one of the few crime writers Grantaire actively enjoyed. The man raised an eyebrow approvingly and took it.

"How interesting, thankyou." He pushed his glasses up and ducked back out of the shelves to Jehan - who took the headphones off with a beaming smile - then turned back to Grantaire. "By the way, I do like your glasses."

"Thanks." He said awkwardly. "I'm not so keen on them myself. They do nothing to improve my face, and god knows it needs it."

The man blinked. "I find your face quite lovely." He then went a little red, handed over his money in exchange for the neatly wrapped parcel of books, then left.

Grantaire turned to Jehan incredulously. "What the fuck was _that_?"

"That was Combeferre. Lovely, isn't he?" Jehan supplied with a smile.

"Well, that's one word i'd use."

 

The next time he encountered Combeferre was at the stupid meeting Jehan dragged him to. He didn't really care too much for anything they were talking about, and when they arrived early he slipped silently to a table at the back of the room with a glass of fine whiskey and made himself as unnoticeable as possible. He had Portrait of a Killer in his bag, so he fished it out and buried his head in it, ignoring the commotion that arose as an admittedly attractive blonde man began talking about ideas of a better future or some such, gradually getting louder as he became more impassioned. He shut up, eventually, to begin an animated discussion with a lanky, ginger, freckled man who stuttered a lot. Grantaire rolled his eyes behind his book. A shadow settled over him, and he expected it to be Jehan, eager for his opinion (he would lie, of course, and say that he was having a good time, because nobody likes to upset Jehan) but instead he found Combeferre towering over him with a bemused smile on his face.

"Are you enjoying it?" He nodded towards the book.

"I am." Grantaire drained his third whiskey and signalled the waitress for another. "It's interesting but I'm withholding judgement till i'm finished." The waitress swept past with his drink and he beamed at her.

"I'm sure I could find another few you might enjoy, should you like." He adjusted his glasses with a smile, but was then called away by the impatient blonde man.

By the time Grantaire got his attention again, he was drunk. He hadn't mean to be, but it was a particularly fine vintage and the waitress was friendly and interesting to talk to and really, he can't be expected to keep track of his own drinks when he has a book in his hands.

Jehan was fretting, bless him. He dithered between Grantaire and the short curly haired boy Courfeyrac, saying that they were going to a late showing of a movie but someone had to help Grantaire home and, _oh_ , what should he do? He was saved from having to make a decision by Combeferre gently hauling Grantaire to his feet and insisting he would take him. Grantaire looped his arm around Combeferre's neck and managed to not throw up in his car, but he did trip over his own feet as he unlocked the door.

"'M so sorry." He mumbled as Combeferre helped him to his feet.

"It's not at all a problem." Combeferre reassured him soothingly, an arm around his waist to steady him.  
Grantaire heaved a great sigh. "Oh, but it is. I really don't mean to drink so much, you know? It just sort of happens and then everyone gives me this _look_ and I just - no not in there, that's my reading room, you have to be special. I just let everyone down! Not that anyone expects much of me anyway, I mean, what good is a useless drunk? But then everyone looks so _disappointed_ and it just makes me want another drink and..." He trailed off as Combeferre helped him carefully onto the bed, taking off his shoes. He sat down gently on the edge of the bed, running a hand comfortingly through Grantaire's curls.

"People who are disappointed in you for who you are are not good friends." Combeferre said softly. "And I highly doubt you are useless. In fact, I completely dispute it."

"You don't even know me." Grantaire mumbled, beginning to fall asleep.

Combeferre pulled the quilt over him and gave his hair one last ruffle. "I'd like to."

He left.

 

He found Combeferre again a few days later, sitting outside the Musain with a cup of coffee. Grantaire hovered, uncertainly, then finally took a seat as Combeferre looked up, closing his book.

"Don't stop on my account." Grantaire said awkwardly, making to leave.

Combeferre waved him off impatiently, gesturing for him to sit down. "I just finished it. Here, you might like it."

He smiled softly and pushed it towards Grantaire.

Grantaire took the book and carefully placed it in his lap, folding his hands over the top. "Listen, about the other night -"

"I stand by what I said." Combeferre interjected. "I dispute that you are useless and I would like to prove that."

"You're entirely wrong." Grantaire said with certainty. "But thank you for taking me home. You didn't have to."

Combeferre gives him an unimpressed look. "I am rarely wrong, and certainly not this time. What are your talents?"

"I don't, um," he quietened under Combeferre's withering gaze. "I play violin, do ballet, fencing, I draw..." He shrugged. "I'm not particularly talented at any."

"I believe I should be the judge of that." He said simply. "Perhaps you could show me sometime?"

Just like that, Combeferre began to slip into his life. Grantaire grudgingly showed him his sketchbook, insistently denying Combeferre's praise but returning it tenfold when Combeferre showed him his own drawings. He found himself inviting Combeferre to his ballet performance, who gave him a standing ovation with a beaming smile and talked about it for days, gushing with Jehan. He found himself opening up to Combeferre, playing the violin for him at any given opportunity, getting coffee together in the mornings, trading books and talking, Combeferre offering compliments and Grantaire vehemently denying them.

 

It took Combeferre a long time to persuade Grantaire to pose for him, and he only does it because Combeferre agreed to do the same in return. They set up in Combeferre's tiny studio, Grantaire setting up a canvas and directing Combeferre where he wanted him. He isn't mean enough to make him stand, so they fetched a chair and Combeferre threw himself petulantly across it, taking off his shoes and rolling up the sleeves of his jumper.

"Is this acceptable?"

"Very." Grantaire had bought a sparkly red headband to push his hair back with while he worked, and was already squeezing out paints determinedly. "Audiobook?"

Combeferre nodded, so he plugged his iPod into the docking station and selected one at random, letting the soothing voice fill the room as he worked.

"You haven't had a drink in two days." Combeferre noted.

Grantaire grimaced. "I am attempting to stop. It's hard. I am...admittedly struggling." He didn't like to admit it. Generally, he kept his flaws to himself; the ones that weren't apparent. He was used to bottling things up, but this was Combeferre after all.

"Should you need my help, only ask."

Grantaire nodded, focusing on the way the light was hitting Combeferre's cheekbones. "Your presence helps." He said absently, not noticing the smile that stretched across Combeferre's face.

"Enjolras is having a... gathering tomorrow. I won't say party because I'm sure it's not. You're invited."

Grantaire scoffed. "I doubt Enjolras invited me."

"He didn't. I did. We finished our exams and decided it would be unwise to let Courfeyrac host a party." Combeferre rolled his eyes fondly.

"So you decided Enjolras would be better?" Grantaire asked incredulously.

Combeferre smirked. "We thought it would be funny. Although, it will be nice just to hang out with everyone." He shrugged. "How's it looking?"

Grantaire looked over his work with a smile. "Good. It's looking good." He usually wasn't one to say he liked his work. They shared smiles across the room for a moment before Grantaire disappeared back behind his canvas, trying to catch the light reflecting off Combeferre's glasses.

They mostly talked about books while Grantaire worked, pulling disgusted faces as they discussed authors they hated and argued over their favourite works, Grantaire jabbing his paintbrush at Combeferre when he strongly disagreed whilst Combeferre kept a calm face. When Grantaire finally beckoned him over to the canvas he stood and stretched lazily, his jumper riding up a little. Grantaire's eyes flicked to the patch of skin before he looked away hurriedly. Combeferre padded over to him on bare feet, leaving his shoes where he'd abandoned them, and put his arm around Grantaire's shoulders as he looked over the painting.

"It's wonderful. Truly wonderful."

Grantaire ducked his head with an embarrassed smile; he still wasn't entirely used to receiving compliments as often as he did. "Guess i'm yours for the rest of the afternoon. I did promise."

Combeferre nods. "You did. Shirt off please." He turned on the spot and went to where he'd left his bag as Grantaire gapes at him.

"Excuse me?"

Combeferre took out his Nikon. "Your shirt. Take it off please. May I use your paints?"

Grantaire blinked at him, confused. "Uh, yes? But i'm keeping my shirt on."

"No no, it'll ruin your clothes."

"I'm not comfortable with this." Grantaire insisted. "I'm hideous."

Combeferre paused from where he was picking out colours and glanced up at Grantaire. "Incorrect. I do believe I told you your face is lovely? That still stands. And I'm certain the rest of you is as well." He stood to smile reassuringly at him. "It's only me. I won't share the pictures if you don't want me to. Trust me?"

Grantaire would have trusted Combeferre with his life, and so he shyly took off his shirt. Combeferre looked him over for a second before smiling. "See. Just as lovely as the rest of you."

Grantaire grudgingly admitted he might not be so bad. You don't, after all, do ballet and kickboxing without ending up with a toned body. He still felt exposed standing shirtless in front of someone, but Combeferre kept the reassuring smile on his face and didn't comment as he positioned Grantaire in front of the white sheet mounted on the back wall. He picked up a tube of red paint, and with no warning threw the contents over Grantaire, who froze.

"Um." Is all he managed before Combeferre moved to the black paint, grabbing Grantaire's largest paintbrush and dragging a thick streak of paint across his face.

"I want it to show you." He said. "So just be yourself. Show me how you feel." He shrugged.

Grantaire felt...not himself. Combeferre had thrown his life into utter turmoil, constantly insisting he was worth something, that he was talented, that he was attractive. He was starting to feel confident for the first time in a long time. Not useless. Combeferre always seemed ready to stand up and support him in anything, and nobody had ever done that before. It was different, but it was good different. That was how he felt. Good.  
It wasn't a feeling he was familiar with, so he laughed. He sat in the middle of the paint on the floor, it covering his jeans everytime he moved, and laughed. Combeferre changed the iPod from an audiobook to some music and Grantaire got up to dance. The paint is smeared all over his chest and Combeferre was beaming at him as he clicked away. He came in close to capture only his face, reaching out to position him with gentle hands, turning him so his eyes caught the light and one side of his face was in stark shadow. He allowed Combeferre one smile, soft in the late afternoon late, then screamed right in his face. Combeferre began to laugh loudly.

"That was an amazing shot." He turned the camera to let Grantaire see, and he couldn't help but smile. "Do it again."

 

Combeferre had the pictures edited by the time Grantaire saw him the following day at Eniolras' little gathering. He kept his promise and didn't show the pictures to anyone, taking Grantaire aside while Courfeyrac was trying to get him to have a drink and quickly showing him the pictures on his tablet.

"The screaming ones are my favourites. Very expressive." He said as he flicked through them. He'd edited the lighting a little so there were darker shadows and the colours more intense.

"You're good at this." Grantaire told him honestly. "It's not often someone takes a good photo of me."

"Not your fault everyone is a bad photographer." Combeferre says smoothly, reaching out to brush Grantaire's hair out of his face as Jehan bounded round the corner.

"I've been looking for you." He announced. "Come on, come sit outside with me it's a lovely night and I want to write on you."

Jehan dragged him outside by the arm as he looked helplessly back over his shoulder at Combeferre, who shrugged. Jehan sat him down on the bench under the tree, then looked him over and raised an eyebrow.

"You don't have a drink." He stated with a frown. "You have to have a drink at a party."

"It isn't a party, it's a gathering. And i'm quitting."

Jehan's face lit up and leaned forward to envelop Grantaire in a hug. "I'm so happy for you! What brought this on?"

Grantaire shrugged. "Combeferre said I was worth something." He said bluntly, feeling a headache coming on and pressing a hand to his temple. "Speaking of, I have a problem."

"With Combeferre? Nobody ever has a problem with Combeferre."

"I think I like him."

Jehan began to smile, it stretching across his face slowly. "How wonderful. How is that a problem?" He uncapped his pen and rolled up Grantaire's sleeve, beginning to write.

"Because he doesn't like me back." Grantaire said with a sigh.

"You don't know that."

"How could he like me back? How could anyone!" He threw his hand up in exasperation. "I'm just -"

"He thinks you're wonderful, you idiot." Jehan cut in. "Remember the book shop? He said your face was lovely and got all flustered and blushed. He smiles like an idiot when we mention you. He's always looking at you during meetings." Jehan scowled at him, clearly annoyed by Grantaire's ignorance.

"But what if you're wrong." Grantaire asked meekly, his head throbbing.

"I am wrong about as often as Combeferre is, and - your hands are shaking are you quite alright? You've gone ever so pale."

Grantaire waved him off. "Just a headache. Maybe I should go home."

Jehan nodded and capped the pen. "I'll go get Combeferre to drive you."

Grantaire tried to call after him, to tell him not to bother Combeferre because he could just as easily walk, but he'd already gone, hair swaying as he stalked off. Grantaire looked down to find Jehan had written a depressing little verse about people in love who never get to be together because they are too scared to talk to each other. He sighed, putting his head in his hands.

Combeferre told him it was alcohol withdrawal and fussed over him as he drove him home, getting him settled in bed and bringing him water. Grantaire didn't sleep that night, even after Combeferre dropped off next to him, both of them squeezed onto the bed. His head throbbed incessantly as his hands shook, skin clammy and sweaty. He tried to read but couldn't focus in the words, eventually settling for curling into Combeferre, listening to his rhythmic breathing.

 

It was tough for them both. Grantaire got progressively worse, developing a high fever and refusing food. He threw up often and was just as often confused, thinking Combeferre merely a hallucination. Combeferre did not leave him. Instead he sat beside Grantaire on the bed, trying in vain to persuade him to eat just a little, brushing his hair from his sweaty forehead and whispering to him comfortingly, letting Grantaire curl into him and grasp at his shirt.

It is on a day where the hallucinations are at bay when Grantaire begged for Combeferre to take him into the reading room. He carried him in easily, Grantaire being so much smaller than him, and set him down carefully amongst the blankets.

"Don't leave." Grantaire whispered quietly, his voice rough, grasping Combeferre's wrist with shaking hands. Combeferre was still wrapping him up in the blankets, but nodded all the same and sat down all the same, letting Grantaire put his head in his lap.

"Enjolras and Feuilly came to see you while you were asleep. Enjolras brought some of that cranberry juice you like." Combeferre told him in a soft voice, gently running his hands through Grantaire's messy curls.

Grantaire scrunched his face up. "Didn't think he cared."

"We all do." Combeferre reassured him. "Everyone keeps coming to see you. We're all very worried."

"Jehan told me you like me." Grantaire said cautiously. "He said you smile when people mention me." Combeferre went a little red, smiling shyly, but Grantaire cut him off before he could answer. "Read to me? Please?"

Combeferre was admittedly thankful for the distraction - this is not the time he wants to discuss after all - so he took a book from the nearest pile just as the rain picked up and it began to thunder, his soothing voice filling the room until it lulled Grantaire into sleep.

 

It gets better, after that, and when Grantaire finally stumbled from his room of his own volition with little more than a headache his living room was full. Combeferre had left him to sleep while he made himself something to eat, and Feuilly, Joly and Jehan had come by with food and flowers about the same time everyone else came by to check on him. He gave them all a beaming smile as they clapped him on the back and smothered him with hugs, until he flopped onto the tiny sofa next to where Combeferre was wiping up the last of his soup with a slice of bread and put his head contentedly on his shoulder.

"If someone makes me food i'll marry them." He announced as Joly descended on him with a cup of tea.

"I'll make you some toast." Jehan said with a soft smile, taking a sprig of white heather and slipping into it Grantaire's hair.

Combeferre put an arm around Grantaire's shoulder as he finished the piece of bread, chatting with Joly about university. Enjolras was on the phone, wandering around and grumbling angrily into it, but he squeezed Grantaire's arm and gave him a small smile as he walked past. Grantaire noticed that Bossuet had a spectacular black eye and Bahorel a split lip, and they were laughing loudly as they recounted the tale to Feuilly, accompanied by grand hand gestures. Courfeyrac, squeezed in the corner, had taken to trying his hardest to distract Enjolras on the phone, who was batting him away impatiently with childish insults. As Jehan came out of the kitchen with a motherly smile and a slice of toast, he decided he wouldn't have his friends any other way.

They stayed for much longer than he would've expected, given that his living room is not big enough for all of them (even with Bossuet perched on the kitchen counter), but one by one they begin to drift off, realising they are late for work and lectures and other things Grantaire has stopped caring about. Enjolras was the last to leave, surprising Grantaire quite a bit, but he gave him his winning smile and remarked that he must be one hell of a debate partner when sober, then strode out purposefully, phone to his ear again. Grantaire had, by this point, slipped all the way down in his seat until his head is in Combeferre's lap, who was playing with his hair absently as he had many nights when Grantaire couldn't sleep. Grantaire looked up and Combeferre was smiling down at him fondly.

"Feeling alright?" He asked, pushing his glasses up his nose with one finger.

Grantaire nodded. "Just tired. And thirsty." He got up to find some of the cranberry juice in the fridge, drinking it straight from the carton.

"I can stay a couple more days, if you like me to. Only if you'd like me to, of course." Combeferre was fiddling with the hem of his jumper. "I mean, I'm not saying you need me to, I just thought perhaps..."

"I'd like you to." Grantaire said quickly, shutting the fridge. "Maybe indefinitely? Maybe. If you wanted."

Combeferre looked up at him with a smile. "Are you asking me to move in?"

"Well I mean, you know, I enjoy your company and I know the flats small but, well, I know you won't abuse my books." He finished lamely. Combeferre smiled, and stood to press a kiss to Grantaire's forehead, plucking some of the yellow chrysanthemums from the bouquet and adding them to Jehan's white heather.

"What a lovely idea."

 

Looking back, Grantaire does not know how Combeferre fit into his life so easily. The flat is even more crowded, with twice as many books as before in just as little space. Now they fall out of the kitchen cupboards and cover so much of the sofa that the only way they can both sit on it at the same time is to sit on each others laps. Combeferre likes to make breakfast, bringing Grantaire tea in bed and sometimes waking him in the middle of the night to carry him into the reading room, where they curl up together and one of them reads aloud by the soft glow of the fairy lights. Grantaire likes it best when it rains, and sometimes when Combeferre comes home he is sticking his head out of the window to enjoy the cool air, the drops running down his skin. Grantaire is making a career of his dancing after a few successful auditions, and mysteriously gets sent bouquets of Bells of Ireland and Amaryllis before his performances.

Combeferre still over works himself studying, and when Grantaire and Enjolras fight he refuses to speak to either of them until they fix things. He and Grantaire fight over stupid things, like Grantaire accidentally putting a wet canvas too close to Combeferre's newest book or Combeferre cooking and forgetting to clean up after himself. Grantaire drinks from the carton and never buys food and Combeferre is insufferable when he has an exam coming up. The three times they have had an actual, proper, relationship endangering apartment Grantaire has slept on the tiny available space on the couch (he could sleep in the reading room, if he didnt now associate it with Combeferre's hands in his hair and his soft voice lulling him to sleep) and when he woke in the morning with stiff limbs Combeferre worked out the aches with trained hands as they whispered apologies to each other.

 

Sometimes he's not sure how he and Combeferre work, but they do, and honestly, he has never been happier.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what [blue lithospermum](http://www.google.co.uk/imgres?hl=en&authuser=0&biw=1366&bih=643&tbm=isch&tbnid=BsSWpxIbnvMdiM:&imgrefurl=http://www.growsonyou.com/photo/slideshow/142554-lithospermum-alpine-heavenly-blue&docid=tBWv_oEvI224qM&imgurl=http://media.growsonyou.com/photos/photo/image/142554/main/Lithospermum_heavenly_blue_.jpg&w=540&h=405&ei=qjMJUvfQOcmw0QWrzYGwAQ&zoom=1&ved=1t:3588,r:4,s:0,i:94&iact=rc&page=1&tbnh=172&tbnw=200&start=0&ndsp=18&tx=84&ty=50) look like, white heather (in the language of flowers) means protection, yellow chrysanthemums mean precious one, Bells of Ireland are for luck and Amaryllis are for pride.
> 
> Please tell me if you spot any mistakes!
> 
> Come say hello on [Tumblr](http://hoshgeldinkardeshim.tumblr.com), or feel free to come send me prompts on my shiny new [writing blog](http://aloysiusmiles.tumblr.com)!


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